


love letters

by Anonymous



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, background mclennon if you squint, ringo's perspective, undefined setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 17:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21039866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It’s a screaming sort of rattle in the back of his mind. It’s a beat; it’s a rhythm that he just can’t quite shake.





	love letters

It’s a screaming sort of rattle in the back of his mind. It’s a beat; it’s a rhythm that he just can’t quite shake. 

And he knows rhythms in a way that not everybody does. No one else in this studio, certainly. Few musicians out there know what he means when he says the rhythm drives the music. The steadiness provides a way forward. 

They’re a fickle lot, artists are. They need a bonding agent. They need a beat. 

But he’s getting away from the point. 

There’s a screaming rattle in his mind that isn’t so dissimilar from the beat that builds calluses thick until the numbness sets in. There’s a constant pressure of sound,  _ notice me notice me notice me notice me notice- _

And it never gets him anywhere. 

He can’t stop thinking it and he doesn’t quite want to. 

George’s eyelashes fan low over his cheekbones. Fanning is too simple a word, too overused. They touch down as he blinks and then back up, ducks skidding the water of a deep pond and then flying upward again, eyes flicking up coal-dark and intense, quick look away, don’t get caught, quick. 

_ Notice me notice me notice me _

And George looks back down. 

George is angry today. George is a volatile thing, only when he wants to be, only where Paul and his maybe-well-intended, maybe-overbearing brotherly sort of supervision combines with John’s patronization and forms a sickly mixture. He doesn’t blame George for not being able to stomach it. He himself couldn’t, and George has bad days. 

George is warm and thoughtful and considerate and snappy and angry and withdrawn. George is a little too raw. 

George is angry today. 

There’s not much he can do about it. There’s not a lot he can do about any of it anymore, although he tries. Diplomacy between the the four of them used to be a little easier. It’s possible that he’s losing his touch. 

Nonetheless he has to try. He can’t sit still until he does. 

He studies George, really studies him. He looks at his eyelashes and the way the shadows of them flicker as he reads. He looks at his mouth. He looks at his hands. He looks at his knobby knees and his fingers holding the book on his lap open. 

George blinks and looks up, out at the scenery moving by. And then he turns and meets Ringo’s eyes, solidly and without hesitation. 

“What?”

Maybe this wasn’t the best method. 

When he doesn’t immediately respond George scoffs. “Stop starin’, then.”

Yeah, this was ill-advised. 

George looks away again. He can’t have that. 

“Geo,” he says softly. 

George huffs. 

“They don’ mean it. You know tha’.”

The book slams closed. “Can’t you leave it alone?” 

“No.” 

George glares at him. George doesn’t ask why. George already knows. 

“I’m not leavin’ it,” he tells him. “Come ‘ere, ya big softie. Come on.” 

Dark eyes grow somehow stormier as they turn back to the window. “I’m not a kid,” George says mutinously. 

“I know. I know you’re not. Now come ‘ere.”

Somehow George manages to frown harder and it makes his eyes impossibly intense. He huffs his way across the train car, a movement of a meter becoming a gargantuan task, and tumbles into the seat with all the cold indifference of a tidal wave. Even from here his body is warm. 

He resists the hug. “I’m not a  _ fuckin’ child. _ ” 

“Hush. Hush, now. I know. You’re not, see? You’re much bigger than me.” 

George’s head drops onto his shoulder as he lets out one final sigh. 

The train continues rocking gently forward. It’s a different rhythm. It’s different than the beat he uses to push them all forward. It’s different than the beat George works into his hands every day. It’s slightly off. George sighs, and for one instant the rhythm lines up perfectly. 

“I wish they’d take me seriously.” 

“They do.” 

“No, I wish they’d look past their little bubble for five fuckin’ minutes and see the rest o’ us are still ‘ere.” 

“I know, Geo.” 

“We write too. They know tha’, they’re just scared o’ being...upstaged, or whatever.” 

“It’s not like tha’.” 

George raises his head off his shoulder to send him an incredulous glare. 

“Okay, maybe it’s a little like tha’,” he allows. “I think you might be better off having this conversation with him. I know you’re good enough. I know you’re better

Part of him expects George to leave. He doesn’t. 

George rests his head back on his shoulder. He shifts. The movement of his hair tickles. Warm lips on his neck tickle. Teeth against his jaw tickle and then there’s a mouth against his. 

It’s brief. It’s warm. It’s chaste. He opens his eyes and the very rhythm of the planet is realigning, putting everything into even sharper perspective. The colors are all new. The air in his lungs feels frozen. It feels like spring. 

George’s head falls back against his shoulder. “Thanks,” he says quietly. 

All he can really do is blink at all the new colors and sounds. All he can do is take in the beautiful shapes. All he can do is throw his arm over George’s shoulders. 

The train continues rocking. The beat of the world goes on. 

George is sweet. 

“Wha’ about you?” George says quietly, voice muffled and raspy. “Have you got anything?” 

“Hmm?” 

“A song, Ritchie.” 

“Hmm.” He hums. “You want me to sing to ye? Is tha’ it?’ 

“Well have you got anything or not?”

He sighs into George’s hair. He taps the fingers of his free hand against his knee. He hums a lazy jazz run, and George laughs quietly. _ “I’ve been wondering, if you’re gonna remain,” _ he sings quietly, almost a murmur,  _ “by my side for long.” _

George’s breath against his neck is very warm. 

_ “You know you see that I can see you be who-ever it is that I need to be near, and baby here, with me is where you belong.”  _

The train rattles down the tracks. John and Paul are somewhere. Brian is somewhere. He doesn’t know and it doesn’t matter. 

The universe is busy realigning. 


End file.
